


Hazards

by hopeintheashes



Series: Home [2]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Family, Family Feels, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Sickfic, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: Buck learns (several times over) what Eddie already knows: Kid germs are merciless.Totally worth it, though.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Christopher Diaz & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Series: Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034745
Comments: 72
Kudos: 387





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This goes together with [Warmth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761647), because apparently these three have stolen my heart. Thanks for reading!

I

“Eddie, phone call for you.” 

Eddie looks up in confusion, because his cell phone is right here, so why would someone be— oh. It’s on silent. With a missed call from Christopher’s school timestamped “just now.” His heart rate jumps and he almost taps the notification to call back before remembering that no, someone’s already waiting on the other line. Bobby motions to his office, where the receiver is off the hook. 

“This is Eddie.” 

“Hello, Mr. Diaz, this Alicia calling fr—” 

“Is Christopher okay?” 

“The nurse asked me to call and ask for someone to come pick him up.” Somehow she manages to make it sound reassuring. Maybe that’s a qualification for working in the front office of a school. Sounding calm no matter what. “He has a fever, and he vomited.” 

Eddie pulls a hand down his face. On the one hand: Normal childhood illness, no need to panic. On the other hand: _Fuck._ “In class?” 

“No, his teacher had already sent him down to the nurse’s office because he wasn’t feeling well.” 

Thank God for that, at least. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Can you let him know I’m on my way?” 

“Of course.” 

He hangs up and just stands there for a second, trying to think through the logistics. If it’s just starting now, it’ll be at least 12 hours, probably more, before he’s feeling better, and then another 24, minimum, before he can go back to school... 

“Everything okay?” Bobby, at the door. 

“Christopher’s sick,” Eddie says, still distracted. 

“Go,” Bobby tells him. “Don’t worry about coverage here.” 

“I’ll try to be in tomorrow. If he’s feeling better. He won’t be able to go to school, but Carla’s said she’s willing to stay with him if—” 

_“Go.”_ More insistent, this time. “We’re fine here.” 

“Yeah, thanks, Bobby.” He heads for the locker room, and immediately gets pounced on by everyone else. 

“What happened? Is Christopher okay?” Buck, worried, pressing to the front of the group. 

“Yeah.” Stuffing his sweatshirt into his duffel bag. “I mean, no, he puked at school, but...” he trails off with a “these things happen” handwave. 

“I’ve been there,” Hen says sympathetically, at the same time that Buck says, “Wait, he was fine when we hung out last night,” and Chimney asks, “In class?” 

“Thankfully not,” he tells Chim, and turns to leave. “Not sure if I’ll be back tomorrow, but either way, see you soon.” 

There’s a chorus of goodbyes. Buck walks him to the door. “Hey, tell Chris he can FaceTime me if he gets bored.” 

Eddie smiles. “He’ll like that.” 

He turns to go, but Buck’s still hovering, working his lip between his teeth. 

“He’s gonna be fine, Buck. He’s a kid, they catch everything.” He sighs. “Which means there’s a greater-than-even chance that I catch it too, but, y’know. Hazards of being a parent.” 

“Text me tonight? Let me know how he’s doing?” 

There’s something about the way Buck talks about his kid, like he’d fight the whole damn world to keep him safe, that makes Eddie’s heart feel like it's coming apart at the seams. “Absolutely.” He’s sure Buck’s going to be texting him before he even gets Christopher set up on the couch.

He stops at a CVS to get medicine and Pedialyte and ginger ale and crackers, even though he’s 95% sure they have all of it at home, because he’s learned the hard way that that’s something you do _before_ you pick up your sick kid, not after. Granted, he learned that lesson in the days before you could get anything in L.A. delivered to your doorstep in under an hour, but it’s one that definitely stuck. 

Christopher’s curled on his side on the vinyl bed in the nurse’s office, and when he sees Eddie, the way he says “Daddy—,” teary and miserable, just about breaks Eddie’s heart. He sits with Christopher and strokes his hair— and yeah, that’s a fever if he’s ever felt one— while the nurse gives him the rundown and hands over an oblong blue plastic pouch that she very clinically calls an “emesis bag” and Eddie calls “the savior of car seats everywhere.” 

“Okay, cariño.” He’s signed Christopher out on the nurse’s sheet, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and picked up his crutches; it’s time to make their move. He’s dreading the next part. It always feels like a tightrope walk. He’s pretty confident in Christopher’s ability to hit the blue bag if necessary once he’s settled in the truck, but on at least one memorable occasion it was the trip _to_ the car that proved disastrous. He helps Christopher sit up slowly and waits for a tiny bit of color to come back into his face. “Do you want to walk or be carried?” 

“Carried,” Christopher whispers, and when Eddie picks him up— carefully; steadily; mentally willing him to hold on at least until they get to the truck— Christopher buries his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck, glasses digging into his collarbone and forehead burning against his skin. The nurse lets them out the door that leads directly from her office to the parking lot, which Eddie appreciates. He realizes he’s counting the steps, and breathes a sign of relief when they make it to the truck without incident. 

“Okay.” Eddie gets him settled in the backseat of the cab. “Hold onto this—” he shakes out the blue bag and presses it into Christopher’s hands— “and we’ll be home soon, okay?” He gets a whispered, “Okay,” in return, and runs a hand over Christopher’s hair again, and closes the door. 

They make it to their driveway, at least; Eddie hears the telltale moan just as he’s putting the truck in park. “Blue bag, Chris—” and here’s where having an eight-year-old is so much easier than a younger kid, because while round two ends with Christopher needing a new shirt, it does not end with Eddie scrubbing the floor of his car, and for that he will be eternally grateful. 

He helps Christopher get changed, and covers the couch with a double layer of old sheets, and rolls up the living room rug. Towel over pillow, a couple more on the floor, trash can, water, Pedialyte, crackers, tv. He scrubs his hands at the sink and wipes down his phone and anything either of them touched on the way in, and texts Buck back to reassure him that they’re okay, and hopes that this is one of the times he gets lucky. 

It’s not. By midnight Christopher is asleep in his bed, seemingly past the worst of it, and Eddie’s on his knees on the bathroom floor. It sucks, a lot, but by dawn it seems safe to go back to bed, and the one upside to both of them being sick is that germ containment is a moot point and there’s no reason not to let Christopher climb under the covers with him in the morning to snuggle and watch cartoons on the tablet. Eddie had called in to work as soon as it became clear that he was not going to fight off this virus through sheer force of will, reasoning that at least that way the third-shift captain could start the process of finding some coverage sooner rather than later. He’d waited until 5:30 to text Bobby and email Christopher’s school. He texts Buck, too, and it’s not until he’s got his eyes closed and Christopher pressed up against his side that he wonders whether that’s a normal thing to do, to text your best friend in the pre-dawn light just to say _Christopher’s doing better but I got sick too._ It’s not the words, he decides, it’s the hour. The intimacy of la madrugada. He falls asleep wishing that Buck was here with them, warmth and strong arms and a comforting hand on his back. It’s the fever, he decides, that’s pulling those thoughts to the surface. He ignores the part where that implies that they've been there all along. 

He’d silenced his phone once he got confirmation from Bobby that his message was received, along with well-wishes from him and Athena. By mid-morning, he feels steady enough to make some toast for himself and Christopher and to switch their movie-watching from the bed and the tablet to the couch and the tv. Those few minutes on his feet wipe him out in a way that he’d forgotten anything could, and when he gets back to the couch, he has to take a minute to breathe before he can look at his phone. Buck had texted him back as soon as he was awake, lots of sad emojis and offers to drop off anything they need after shift. The next two are from Chim and Hen, timestamped right at the start of shift and basically both saying the same thing: _Sorry to hear you’re sick, feel better, hope Christopher’s on the mend._ A much more recent set of messages, though, starts with a photo from Chim captioned “The Walking Dead.” Buck’s at the table, a plate of food untouched in front of him, head in his hands. Chim’s right; he’s deathly pale. It’s immediately followed by another text from Chim: “You ever known Evan Freaking Buckley to turn down food?” The next one, from Hen, is timestamped less than five minutes later. “Any advice on getting Buck to admit defeat? Your boy is *not* looking good.” 

Well, shit. He glances over at Christopher, who looks like he’s fallen back asleep, and turns down the volume on the tv. When Christopher’s eyes don’t open, Eddie decides it’s safe to make the call from here. Which is good, because he might, he reluctantly admits to himself, be too dizzy to stand. He hits the button to FaceTime Buck, and waits. 

It takes a long minute, but Buck picks up. “Hey!” He’s trying for cheerful, but his voice is shaking and Eddie can see that he’s sweating through his shirt. “How are you guys doing? How’s Chris?” 

“He’s asleep, Buck, which apparently is what you should be, too.” He hates how weak he sounds. He’s going to have to force himself to eat a little bit more. Drink some of their ridiculously large jug of Pedialyte. “You want to tell me why the rest of the crew is texting me to try to get you to listen to reason?” 

“What?” Totally unconvincing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Uh-huh. I told you.” He closes his eyes. Lets his head drop to the back of the couch. “Hazards of hanging out with kids. Their germs have no mercy.” 

“Worth it, though,” Buck says quietly, and Eddie lifts his head. Before he can say anything else, though, Buck’s muttering _“Oh, fuck”_ and scrabbling for the button to end the call. He doesn’t manage to hit it, and the view changes suddenly, mostly the ceiling but also tiled walls and the top edge of an industrial mirror, and it becomes very clear why the sound on Buck’s end had been weirdly echo-y. Eddie’s fast enough to turn down the sound before he has to hear Buck heave, which would definitely have been more than his own stomach could handle right now. He waits a minute, then turns the sound up just enough to make sure it’s over. 

“Buck?” 

A groan. “Sorry.” Only the side of his head is in frame. “I tried to hang up.” A shift in shapes and colors that Eddie can’t quite follow, and then Buck again, back against a wall, holding the phone out in front of him with his elbows on his knees, head hanging down. 

“Buck?” Chimney’s voice, this time, far away and then coming closer. “You okay? Oh, hey, Eddie.” 

“Hey, Chim.” 

“Jeez.” Chim shakes his head, standing over Buck’s shoulder so he’ll be in frame. “The two of you look _rough_.” He turns to Buck. “You finally puke?” 

Eddie can see Buck’s Adam’s apple jump at the word. “Yeah,” he answers for him. “He did.” Then: “Chim, you wanna do some reconnaissance for me?” 

Chim raises an eyebrow; then, with a sudden “Ah” of understanding, he’s got his palm pressed to Buck’s forehead before Buck’s fevered brain can parse the words. “Yup. We could fry an egg on you, kid.” Buck groans at the mention of food. “Sorry,” Chim amends. Then, a little quieter: “Okay. How are we gonna get you home?” 

Buck’s breath is starting to catch in a way that Eddie recognizes all too well. “Buck, give Chim the phone.” 

Chim blinks, but takes the phone out of Buck’s hand just before he goes diving forward into the stall. “Oh, you’re _good_.” 

“Yeah. Just the talent I’ve always wanted to have.” He leans his head back on the couch again and waits until the retching stops. “He still in one piece?” 

“So far. Which brings us back to—” Chim reaches into the stall to flush the toilet, then sits down on the floor, back against the post between two stall doors, and pulls Buck in so that he’s leaning against him, head on Chim’s shoulder, Chim’s free hand working through his hair. Eddie has never appreciated Chim more. “—How are we getting him home?” 

“I’ll just drive.” Buck’s voice is battered and slurred, and Chim gives an audible “Ha!” in reply. 

“Like hell,” Eddie tells him. God, his head hurts. He remembers that he’s got some water beside him and forces himself to take a sip. “Uber?” 

“He’d puke in the cab. Sorry,” Chim says again when both of them flinch, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “One of us should drive him home,” he says, “but unfortunately it’s gonna have to wait for the end of shift. We’re a little short on coverage right now.” 

“Buck?” Eddie’s starting to shake from holding up the phone. “I know it really sucks, but do you think you could make it to the end of shift? You can just curl up on your bunk, or bring the blankets into the bathroom or something. Chim and Hen will help you get set up.” He’s running on fumes, eyes slipping closed. 

“Hen will help you get set up,” Chim mutters. Eddie ignores him. 

“And then—” quiet, like it’s just him and Buck— “you’ll come to my house, okay? We’re all sick here anyway. And Christopher would love to see you.” _And so would I,_ he manages not to say. He feels like he’s floating. Like his fever is pulling him skyward. “And then—” voice fading, half-lucid— “you wouldn’t have to be alone.” 

A noise from Buck that sounds like longing, and then Chim’s voice, with a gravity Eddie’s not used to hearing when they’re not out on a call. “Eddie.” 

“Mm.” 

“We’ve got him, okay?” Gentle in a way that pricks hot tears into his closed eyes, and it’s suddenly, bewilderingly hard to breathe— “Hen and I, we’ve got him. Bobby, too. One of us will drop him off at your place tonight, and we’ll bring some soup or something for you and Chris.” Quieter still, just before the beep of the call ending: “He’ll be okay, Eddie. Go to sleep.”

He wakes to Christopher sitting up on the couch, slowly crunching his way through some pretzels with his eyes fixed on the tv. 

“Hey, kiddo.” He’s still so, so tired, but it feels like the kind of tired that two days of sleep could fix, not the shaky fever haze that makes it feel like the world is coming down around him. 

“Hey.” Christopher’s a little pale and way too quiet, but he’s upright and eating and his water bottle is half-empty, so, progress. Serious progress. Eddie slides down the couch so that he can get Christopher in his arms. Presses his lips to Christopher’s forehead. He’s not as warm as Eddie, which seems like a good sign but also is probably not the best metric right now. 

“Buck’s gonna come over in a bit, okay? He’s sick, too. Figured we could all be miserable together.” He shivers and burrows deeper into the couch.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” Christopher pats his shoulder sagely. “I’ll take care of him.” 

“I know you will, mijo.” Lets his eyes close again. “I know.” 

He hears the click of Buck’s key in the lock just as he’s considering getting up for more water. And to pee, which means he’s not totally dehydrated. Small victories. 

“I come bearing gifts,” Chimney declares, and rounds the corner with two grocery bags in one hand and the other at Buck’s back, coaxing him forward. “Soup and company. The former may be better than the latter.” He puts down the grocery bags and herds Buck into the living room. “Hey, Chris, you feeling better, bud?” 

“Uh-huh,” Christoper nods. “I haven’t puked all day!” 

Chim laughs. “Glad to hear it. More than we can say for our other friend, here.” He deposits Buck in the recliner, where Buck curls up and presses his face into the arm of the chair. “Hasn’t in a while, though,” he says to Eddie, “even after we got some toast in him, so, y’know.” He tilts his head as if to say, _not all bad_. “And Bobby gave up his office for the day so that Buck and all of his bedding could take up residence in his private bathroom instead of the shared one.”

“That’s good, at least.” The relief at having Buck here, with them, instead of on the station’s bathroom floor, is stronger than Eddie ever would have guessed. 

“Definitely. So!” He claps his hands. “I am at your service for—” he checks his watch— “as long as you need me, but also 15 minutes, so make your requests now.” 

“Can I have some more water, please?” Christopher holds out the mostly-empty bottle to Chim. 

“You certainly can.” Chim swipes the bottle with a flourish. “Eddie?” 

“Yeah.” He’s got his elbows on his knees, trying to convince himself that any moment, he’ll be ready to get up. 

“Eddie,” Chim says again, and this time it comes out like a warning. 

Eddie sighs and holds out his hand, and Chim leverages him up off the couch. “Thanks.” He can’t quite meet Chim’s eyes. 

“What I’m here for. You want some more water too?” 

Eddie nods, and shuffles to the bathroom, and when he gets back Chimney’s pouring soup into two mugs and putting crackers on three plates and getting Christopher settled in the beanbag chair with his dinner on the coffee table. “Okay,” he says to Buck. “Decision time, because I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who can get you on your feet right now. Recliner or couch? Or bathroom first?” 

“Couch,” Buck says, low and ragged, and Eddie realizes it’s the first thing he’s heard him say since their FaceTime call. 

“You got it.” 

Eddie helps Chim reset the old sheets and blankets and towels that have come loose from a day of being slept on, then stands awkwardly by while Chim helps Buck the three feet from the chair to the couch. He hates that he can’t help; that he can’t even stay on his feet long enough to see Chim out the door. He sinks down into the recliner as soon as it’s free. 

Chim gets one more blanket for Christopher, and assures Eddie that he’ll call Bobby and let him know not to expect him or, obviously, Buck tomorrow, and gives them all a once-over with what could only be called a fond expression. “Alright, I’m off. You’ve got half a dozen people at your beck and call,” he reminds them. “Don’t be afraid to use us. For his sake,” he says to Eddie, gesturing to Christopher, which, fair enough, “and his, too.” He looks pointedly at Buck, still curled in on himself with his eyes fixed in the middle distance, breathing shallowly like everything hurts. 

Eddie nods, and he means it. “Thank you, Chim. For everything.” 

  
Christopher eats all of his soup, and afterward he seems a little closer to his usual energetic self. Eddie manages half, and the idea of eating the rest later doesn’t make his stomach turn, so, progress there as well. Buck gets through three crackers, which Eddie is pretty sure is only because Christopher had first plunked down the trash can down near Buck’s head and then handed him the crackers one by one until Buck waved him off. “See, Dad,” Christopher had said in a stage whisper, “I’m taking care of him!” That had gotten a ghost of a genuine smile from Buck, and Eddie had ruffled Christopher's hair and tried not to let the lump in his throat show when he said, “Yes, you certainly are.”

When Eddie gets up to put the dishes in the sink and turn down the lights, he actually feels reasonably steady on his feet. It’s an hour before Christopher’s usual bedtime, but he give him a 10-minute warning anyway, with the promise that he can read in bed for as long as he wants. “We’ll do lots of stories tomorrow, okay? And showers. And laundry.” And dishes, and Cloroxing the whole damn house. Tomorrow. 

Christopher nods, and yawns, and by the time Eddie tucks him in his eyes are closing. “I love you, mijo.” He kisses Christopher’s forehead and smooths back his hair. “We’re staying home tomorrow, okay?” Christopher starts to protest, but Eddie squeezes his hand. “You still had a fever this morning. It’s the rules. And besides, I need your help to take care of Buck. You are the official stuffed-animal-provider and movie-choice-reader, okay?” Christopher nods very seriously, then yawns again. He’s out before Eddie closes the door. 

  
Buck’s still quiet and unmoving under three blankets. Eddie offers him a hand to get up, but Buck shakes his head. “Drink more water,” Eddie tells him, and Buck just closes his eyes. Eddie sighs. “Okay, scooch.” 

It takes some doing, but they finally get settled with Eddie leaning back on a nest of pillows in the corner of the couch and Buck’s head on another pillow in his lap. Eddie closes his eyes and exhales for what feels like the first time in days. He works his fingers into Buck’s hair and gets a groan in return, the kind that means, _don’t you dare stop_. They’re quiet in the dimness for a while, until Eddie lets his fingers slow and settles his palm on Buck’s forehead. “You’re warm,” he tells him. 

“ _You’re_ warm,” Buck says, like it’s some kind of comeback, but he’s got his hand tucked under Eddie’s leg. 

“I’m sorry to say that this is gonna keep happening if you keep hanging out with us,” Eddie tells him. He’s got his thumb moving at Buck’s temple, now, and he can feel Buck slowly relaxing under the touch. 

“Worth it,” Buck murmurs, and Eddie’s eyes are closing, too. It’s been a hell of a couple of days, and pretty soon they’re going to have to go back to the real world, work and school and everything that goes with it. Tomorrow, though, movies and blanket forts, everyone on the upswing? Tomorrow sounds like exactly what they need.   
  


. . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments, kudos, and just for reading! Here's part two. I'm thinking one more part of this fic, and then there's a quarantine fic kicking around in my head ([Warmth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761647) is more or less set in January 2020, so...). Stay tuned. :-)

II  
  


“Ah, a weekend that actually lined up with the rest of the world.” Chimney’s practically strutting to the breakfast table with his coffee. “You do anything fun, Hen?” 

“We spent all of Saturday at the beach. It was _glorious_.” Hen’s scooping eggs onto her plate. “Eddie?”

Eddie shakes his head wryly. “No such luck. Urgent care, pharmacy, movies on the couch. Strep throat.” Hen groans. “For both of us, apparently, although in my case they caught it super early. Tested me while they were doing Christopher’s, which is better than last time, where I had to drag myself back 24 hours later just when Christopher was starting to feel better and I was almost too sick to drive.” 

Chim shoves his chair back to put more space between them. “Speaking of 24 hours, please tell me that’s at least how long you’ve been on antibiotics.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “ _Yes,_ Chim. I didn’t come to work contagious, jeez.”

“Well, that’s good. That shit spreads like wildfire.” Chim scooches his chair halfway back, still looking at Eddie a little suspiciously. “How about you, Buck? Good weekend?” 

“Eh, nothing too exciting.” Mostly texting Eddie and FaceTiming Christopher, really, but Buck leaves it at that. He’s inspecting his eggs like there might be something wrong with them. Eddie wants to tell him that that’s tempting fate— in their line of work, waiting to eat or use the bathroom is pretty much a guarantee that a call will deny you the chance— but Hen’s already bringing the conversation back around: “Did you send Christopher back to school today?” 

Eddie shakes his head. “He was still a little off this morning, so he’s hanging out with Pepa today. _Not_ contagious,” he says pointedly to Chimney. “Carla has other clients during the time he’d normally be at school, but she’s going to pick him up, same as usual, and stay with him overnight.” He leans back in his chair. “I’m sure he’ll be driving Pepa up the wall by this afternoon. It’s amazing how fast kids bounce back once they get the meds in their system.” 

Chim nods sagely like he has any experience with that whatsoever, which Hen jumps on and starts giving him shit for. Eddie lets them go at it, and knocks his boot against Buck’s under the table. “You okay?” 

“What?” He looks up.

“Are you feeling okay.” 

The look he gets back, pure confusion at the question, is actually kind of reassuring. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“ _Strep,_ Buck. You, me, Christopher, movies and snacks on Friday night, ringing any bells? Chim’s right, it’s obnoxiously contagious.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Kinda tired, but that’s my own fault. Do you have any idea how addictive The Great British Bake Off is?” 

The alarm sounds, and they go, most of Buck’s breakfast uneaten on his plate. 

Eddie’s taken by surprise when he gets the text from Carla that she’s picked up Christopher; somehow, it’s already mid-afternoon. In any case, she says that Christopher seems to be back to his usual self, so they’re on for school tomorrow. Eddie and the rest of the crew are just starting a set of 24 hours on, 24 hours off, so while he won’t be home in time to take Christopher to school, he will be able to pick him up. He just has time to reply to Carla before the alarm goes off again. 

They end up getting three calls back-to-back, not even making it back to the station between the second and third. It’s hard work, but all of the victims walk away under their own power, and it feels good to be in motion. Eddie tries to picture having a desk job, and just about shudders. Nope, this is the way to go. 

They finally get dinner, and the bell doesn’t ring, thank _God,_ and pot roast has never tasted so good. He turns to say as much to Buck, but Buck’s eating... determinedly. Like he’s not enjoying it so much as just making sure he gets the calories in, bit by bit. Which is better than _not_ eating, but still. He watches him, probably not very subtly, but waits until Bobby and Hen are trying to convince a very animated Chim that he’s got some statistic wrong before he starts to say anything about it. Buck sighs before he can even get the words out. “I’m just tired, Eddie.” Massaging his temple with the heel of his hand. “It’s been a long fucking day.” 

Eddie looks at him dubiously, but decides that an actual hand-to-forehead fever check would be a little dramatic for the dinner table. He settles for pulling Buck’s free hand onto his knee, fingers around his wrist, feeling for his pulse. Heart rate steady, skin no warmer than Eddie’s, but it still feels inevitable. Sword of Damocles or some shit. 

Buck raises his eyebrows. “Satisfied?” 

“I might be if I’d seen you actually eat anything today.” 

“I’m eating right now!” He brandishes his fork, a piece of pot roast on the tines. 

“You know what I mean. If it didn’t look like something you were being forced to do at gunpoint.”

Buck sighs and puts down his fork. Glances down the table, then, lower but insistent: “Okay, I’ll admit to not being, like, a hundred and ten percent right now, but what exactly do you want me to do, here, Eddie? Tell Bobby I’m leaving shift early because I’m a little bit tired from staying up late watching Netflix? Yeah, _that’s_ gonna go over well.” 

“Well, not if you say it like that, it isn’t,” Eddie grumbles. 

“After dinner I’ll go lie down, okay?” He picks up his fork and very deliberately takes another bite. “That’s all I need.” 

Bobby comes up when Eddie’s washing the dinner dishes. “Isn’t Buck supposed to be helping you?” 

“Yeah, he went to go lie down.” 

Bobby blinks in surprise. “That’s...” 

“Weird? Un-Buck-like, even to get out of doing dishes? Yeah, tell me about it.” He’s channeling his frustration into scrubbing the roasting pan.

“Is he okay?” 

Eddie gives a “who knows?” gesture that sends soap suds into the air. “I mean, I’m pretty damn sure he’s about to crash and burn; it’s just a question of when.” He flips on the water and sticks the pan in to rinse it. “Unfortunately, Buck’s right, and ‘I might possibly get sick at some point before the end of shift or maybe on my day off or maybe not at all’ isn’t really grounds to leave.” He adds the pan to the drying rack with a little too much force and nearly unbalances the whole thing.

Bobby tilts his head in acknowledgment. “Well, he’s not wrong; coverage is definitely an issue. If he’s really okay to make it through the rest of the shift I’m not going to turn down the offer. But he’s gonna have to tell us if and when it crosses the line.” 

Eddie blows out a breath. “Do you want to tell him that? Because I don’t seem to have had much luck in the past.” 

“Actually, yes.” Bobby claps a hand on his shoulder. “I will.” 

Eddie raises his eyebrows and watches him head for the bunks. Maybe Bobby in captain mode will have some effect. 

  
He manages to finish the dishes without breaking anything and goes to check on Buck for himself. Eight p.m. and he’s out cold on top of the covers, which should really be answer enough. Fighting him on it would require waking him up, though, so he just goes to the linen storage and gets one of the extra blankets and drapes it over Buck, who doesn’t even move. Eddie fights the urge to... do what, exactly? He’s not quite sure, but it definitely involves Buck being _in_ the bed or, even better, at home. 

“Eddie!” Hen, from the hall. “You gonna come play cards?” 

Eddie flinches at the noise, but Buck doesn’t seem to hear. He waits until he gets to the hall to answer. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“Is Buck okay?” 

That spike of frustration again, helplessness turned into worry turned into anger. “He’s currently dead to the world, so you tell me.” 

“Shit,” Hen says, looking down the hall toward the bunk room. A beat. “Well, probably best if we stay out of his hair, then, right?” 

Eddie cocks his head at her. “Hen, do you and Chim have money on this game?” 

“Possibly. C’mon. If you help me win I’ll cut you in.” 

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and gives in to the familiar back-and-forth. “I’ll only cheat if Chim does first.” 

“Oh, you _know_ he’s going to.” 

Eddie takes one last glance down the hall and then follows Hen to the table. “That I do.” 

  
They’re deep into their game, which Chim seems to be winning, when the alarm goes off again— “You set this up!” Chim shouts over his shoulder on his way to the truck— and Buck comes running from the bunks. He’s in his turnout gear and in the truck as fast as any of them, and there’s no time for anything besides Bobby turning around in the front seat to ask, “You good?” 

Buck nods, pale and sweating, and they go. Eddie’s across from Buck, too far away for any sort of private conversation, so he just stares him down from across the way. He can feel his lips pressed tight, knows it’s going to read as anger, and that’s fucking fine with him; his adrenaline is spiking and it’s only partly because of the accident scene on the highway that they’re currently speeding toward. Buck holds his eyes, no apology in his gaze, and Eddie’s the one to look away first. 

It’s a multi-car pileup that grows even after they arrive, because people are fucking idiots who will drift like moths toward the flashing lights instead of paying attention to staying in their own damn lane. They’re all on the ground, moving from car to car, trying to assess the situation as Bobby calls in reinforcements. Eddie sees smoke, but Chim gets there first, fire extinguisher in hand, and then there’s a mother trapped in the driver’s seat with her baby wailing in the carseat in the back, and that’s the only thing Eddie can focus on for a while. 

Eventually, everyone who needs to be is in an ambulance, and the tow trucks have arrived to move the cars that can’t get to the shoulder or median on their own. They help with clean-up, Buck working right along with the rest of them, and then refill the tanks, and it’s midnight by the time they’re actually back. Hen and Chim fall right back into their poker game, but Eddie waves them off. Shower and bed. That’s the plan. And if the ulterior motive is to get Buck alone after not being able to actually talk to him the whole call, well, that’s not something that Chim and Hen need to know. 

He’s showered and dressed in five minutes flat, willing the tone not to go off before he’s done. By the time he gets back to the bunks, Buck’s already buried under the covers, extra blanket included. Eddie watches him for a minute, then drops his stuff on his own bed and sits on the edge of Buck’s. Gets a hand on his back. “Hey.” Quiet, but insistent.

Buck shakes his head against the pillow with a noise that sounds like an objection.

“You okay?” 

“Better if you’d let me sleep.” Muffled, still, but the message gets across. 

“Buck.” 

No answer. 

He sighs, and lays his hand across the back of Buck’s neck. Warm, for sure, but not the kind of fever that could justify him forcibly dragging Buck home. Not that he could even be the one to do the dragging: if Buck leaves they’ll already be short-staffed, so it’s not like he could leave, too. The thought of letting Buck out of his sight makes his chest squeeze painfully, irrational and possessive and fucking with his head. 

Buck makes a noise that Eddie takes to mean _Stop worrying and go the fuck to sleep._ He gives Buck’s shoulder a squeeze and reluctantly goes back to his own bunk. Lets the exhaustion pull him down. 

It’s dark, as dark as it ever gets in the station, and quiet, everyone in bed. His internal clock says three a.m., and some far-off part of his brain thinks, _the witching hour_. He blinks, and the dark shape of the nearest bunk resolves. Buck’s sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, head in his hands. Before Eddie can sit up as well, Buck pushes himself up and starts for the door. Eddie put on his pants and grabs his shoes, just in case they get a call, and follows him. 

He finds him in the kitchen, slowly sipping from a glass of water with one hand braced against the counter. He hasn’t turned on the lights. Eddie tries to make himself known, but Buck still starts when Eddie comes into his field of view. He’s got this look, defensive and hurting, like he’s fully expecting Eddie to lead with _I told you so_.

“Don’t say it,” Buck tries to get out, but his voice is destroyed, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the pain. 

_Wasn’t going to._ Eddie just takes the water glass from his hand and sets it on the counter. Gets a hand on his shoulder, his back. Pulls him in. Buck tries to fight it, holding onto denial in the darkness, and then he lets go. It’s surrender like a trustfall, absolute, and Eddie’s dizzy with the weight of it all, the unspoken everything.

“Come sit down.” Quiet, hand moving on Buck’s back, far too warm through his shirt. Buck nods against him, and Eddie grabs the glass of water and walks him over to the couch. Buck takes the corner and Eddie sits down beside him, pressing in close so that Buck can stay upright enough to take a drink. 

It’s clear that Buck’s steeling himself to say something, but whatever Eddie was guessing it would be, he’s wrong.”You’ve been—” It’s a broken whisper. “Waiting for this. All day.” He drops his head onto Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie finally gets a hand on his forehead. Lets the fever heat soak into his palm. “Are you—” He swallows painfully, pressing into the touch even as his voice turns bitter. “Happy now?” 

“Am I fucking—” Buck doesn’t move, so Eddie doesn’t either, but— “Buck, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It _means_ —” voice cracking, tears welling, fever burning his defenses thin— “that I’m not fucking _fragile_.” He gulps for breath. “You don’t have to just—” searching— “sit around waiting for me to break.” 

Eddie’s speechless, _what the hell did I do?,_ the anger starting to build. He forces himself take some deep breaths. Bring himself back down. Remind himself that it’s not just the here and now. That it’s the bombing, the tsunami, the lawsuit; the way he’s forever trying to prove himself worthy. Unable to see that not everyone’s love is conditional. That when it comes to the people who matter, there’s nothing there to prove. One more breath, a little calmer now. There’s a throw blanket on the other side of the couch. Eddie drapes it over them both, trying to pick out his words. 

“I don’t think you’re fragile, Buck, I think you’re human.” Pulling him close with an arm around his shoulders, the other hand brushing back his hair. Buck leans into it and tries not to sob. “And I know that if you didn’t hang out with me and Christopher, this probably wouldn’t be happening, so maybe I feel a little responsible.” Buck starts to protest, and Eddie shakes his head. “It’s not actually anybody’s fault, and I know you’re gonna tell me it’s worth it, which...” He trails off, not quite sure how to say _I think it’s worth it, too_ without making it sound like he doesn’t wish Buck wasn’t sick. He leans his head against Buck’s and starts again. “I’m not saying you’re weak. I’m saying I care about you. A lot.” A breath in the darkness. “And I know that you’re strong, and that you want to try to hide it when things go wrong. I’m saying you don’t have to. I’ve got you, okay?” Quiet and close. “Always.” 

The tears spill and Buck tries to breathe through it, the fever magnifying everything. Eddie closes his eyes and presses his lips to Buck’s forehead. Buck’s got his fingers twisted up in the hem of Eddie’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat. 

“We’ll go to urgent care as soon as I get off shift,” he says after a while. “Do you want to go home first, or wait?” He really, really doesn’t want to put Buck in an Uber, but it’s clear that Buck needs some say in things right now. 

“Wait.” Barely audible. 

“Okay.” 

Lips to Buck’s forehead again, and his thumb sweeping over his cheek, brushing away tears. Buck pulls back to cough into the blanket, hurting and miserable. Eddie sighs and looks up, and then his heart fucking stops in his chest because Bobby’s watching them from across the room. It pulls the air out of Eddie’s lungs and he’s not here anymore, he’s back in the basement of his childhood home, forehead to forehead with José Luis from his World History class, the thrill of the almost-kiss shattered as his name rings out sharp and angry from the bottom of the stairs, disgust and disappointment like a slap to the face. It still sends him spinning after all this time, no matter how much his dad has tried to make up for it in the intervening years. 

Bobby’s got his hands up like he can see his panic through the dark. “Just checking on Buck,” he says, calm as ever. When he gets close he puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and gives a reassuring squeeze, eyes on Buck. Eddie blows out a shaky breath and tries to get his heart rate to come back down. 

Bobby sits down on the coffee table to take stock. “I’m guessing he’s done?” 

Eddie nods, not trusting himself to speak, and sweeps his hand over Buck’s forehead again. Bobby leans forward and does the same, and Buck makes a sound like he both hates that this is happening and doesn’t ever want it to stop. 

“That’s quite the fever you’ve got there, Buck,” Bobby tells him, still not asking Eddie to meet his eyes, which Eddie appreciates in a way that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to convey. “What’s the plan?” 

“Eddie’s gonna—” But it’s clear it hurts too much to talk, and Buck just gestures vaguely at Eddie, who swallows and steadies his voice. 

“I’m gonna take him to urgent care as soon as we get off shift. He said he wants to wait here, if that’s okay.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Bobby pats Buck’s knee through the blanket. “I’ll take you off the roster and see if there’s anybody on call to cover, but either way there’s only a few hours left.”

Buck nods, eyes mostly closed, and shivers. 

“I’ll let you get back to sleep.” Bobby stands up, but doesn’t leave. “Let me know if you need anything.” He does look at Eddie, then: steady and solid, holding his gaze. “I’ve got your back.” 

“Thanks,” Eddie whispers, and Bobby nods, and walks away. 

They just sit there for a little while, Buck half-asleep and Eddie a mess of shame and relief and fear and hope, until he finally pulls himself together and coaxes Buck to his feet and back to bed. 

There’s one more call right at dawn, a tone out for additional paramedic support, and when Chim and Hen head for the ambulance Eddie gets up, too. He hesitates when he sees that Bobby’s already sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, but forces himself to keep going. To act normal. He pours a cup of the coffee that Bobby made and sits down a few chairs away. Pulls out his phone so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes. 

“You’ve got a good thing going,” Bobby says after a while, not looking up from the news. “I’m happy for you.”

“I don’t even know what kind of thing it is.” He hadn’t planned to say anything. The words just tumble out. 

Bobby puts down his paper and sits back in his chair. “It’s the kind of thing where you have someone who clearly cares a lot about you, and about your kid, and vice versa on both counts.” He takes a sip of coffee. “If I can offer some unsolicited advice...?” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow slightly, a cautious invitation to go on. 

“Hold onto it. And enjoy it.” Bobby gives him a small smile. “Good things are hard to find.” 

The shift change finally comes, and Eddie gently shakes Buck awake, hating to do it but grateful that home is finally in sight. Buck’s exhale when he sits up sounds like disbelief. “ _God,_ Eddie.” Wrecked. “This is...” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “I wasn’t lying when I said I felt okay before.” He stops to swallow, everything swollen and painful.

“I know. It comes on fast. Let’s go to urgent care, okay? Shouldn’t be too crowded this early in the morning.” 

He’d forgotten that what’s true of ERs is also true of urgent care: that all the people who spent the weekend telling themselves, “If I’m not better by Monday, I’ll go in” have made it to Monday still feeling shitty and have finally decided to do something about it, most of them with issues that are more pressing than strep. They sit in the hard plastic chairs and Buck holds the clipboard with the intake paperwork in shaking hands, staring at it without even writing his name until Eddie finally takes it from him and starts filling it out himself. He gets a good look at Buck as he’s walking back from taking it up to the front desk, and fuck, if he thought that throwing his badge and his weight around would get them in any faster he’d do it in a heartbeat. He sits down instead and Buck buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you when you get called back?” Eddie asks quietly. Buck nods against him, and Eddie pulls him close. 

Buck ends up with an IV, because apparently it’s a bad idea to work a 3-hour call with a fever without drinking any water because it hurts too much to swallow. Who would have fucking guessed. Eddie’s knee is going like a jackhammer, heel driving into the ground. He’d been right fucking there. Not like he couldn’t’ve seen it coming. Should’ve been able to stop it from getting this bad. 

Buck just watches him, curled on his side, and shivers under the thin blanket the nurse had given him, the fever and the room temperature saline and the institutional coldness of the office taking hold. Eddie shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the blanket. Smooths it down. Keeps rubbing his back until Buck starts to relax. He’d been standing to reach Buck on the tall exam bed, and when he goes to sit back down, Buck grabs his hand. Eddie holds it in both of his, thumb moving over the spot that mirrors where the IV is on the other side, and, through sheer force of will, doesn’t let go when the door opens after a quick knock. The PA doesn’t even blink, because this is L.A. here and now and not El Paso a decade and a half ago, but Eddie’s heart is pounding in his throat. He’s pretty sure that Buck can feel him shaking, because he gives his hand a squeeze. Eddie squeezes back. They get a prescription and a talking-to about making sure that Buck stays hydrated, and then they’re out in the sunlight. He stays by the passenger door while Buck climbs into the truck, which gets him some grumbling but also a hand on his shoulder so that Buck can steady himself, so, vindicated there. 

He sits in the truck, hands on the wheel, without turning it on. Buck leans his seat back and turns to him with a questioning look. 

Eddie takes a breath. “I’m sorry that I made you feel like I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop all of yesterday. Like I didn’t trust you to... take care of yourself. Or ask for help. Or whatever.” 

Buck shrugs. “I mean, you weren’t wrong. I just hated that you were right.” He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s just like, if I can’t do the one thing I’m supposed to be doing, the one thing I’m good at, then what’s even the point of me, you know?” 

Eddie does turn to him, then. “Jesus, Buck. The fucking point is that you’re _you_. Funny and reckless and occasionally infuriating, and so damn good with Christopher, and you’d do anything to protect people, and you’re just a _good person,_ Buck.” And then, a little quieter, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Buck glances at him, and then away, like he doesn’t quite believe what Eddie’s telling him but he doesn’t have enough energy to fight it, either. They drive to the pharmacy, and by the time they retrieve the white paper bag from the drive-through line it’s lunchtime, the sun high in the sky. Christopher will be home soon, and they’ve got until the morning. It feels like a gift, and also like not nearly enough time. 

“Don’t know what I’d do without you, either,” Buck says finally, as they’re getting ready to leave. Quiet, like he’s not quite sure about saying it out loud. 

“Well, guess it’s a good thing we don’t have to find out.” Eddie looks over at him, and puts the truck in gear. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

. . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end! Of this fic, anyway; I have some more ideas for what comes next. Thank you to everyone who's been reading, leaving kudos, commenting, quietly thinking positive thoughts... I see you, I appreciate you, you make this whole thing worthwhile. <3
> 
> This chapter takes place after [Warmth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761647), which gets referenced but isn't necessary to understand what's going on. Although I'd love for you to read it at some point if you haven't yet. :-) 
> 
> Happy New Year!

III

"Alright, mijo, I love you, and I'll see you after school tomorrow, okay?" He waits for a nod, then adds, "Can you give the phone back to Carla, please?" Eddie scrubs his face with his hand. Buck, beside him on the couch, looks at him questioningly. 

"Okay. Night, Dad. Night, Buck. Love you." 

Buck waves, and Christopher hands off the phone. Carla's face appears on screen. 

"Hey," Eddie says, "how's he doing?" 

Carla looks thoughtful. "Fine, but..." 

Eddie sighs. "But he's got that look." 

Buck looks back and forth between them, confused. "What look?" 

"That look like he's not sick yet, but he's about to be." 

"Mm-hmm," Carla agrees.

"How... what?" Buck's clearly replaying the whole conversation with Christopher in his head, which, admittedly, had been perfectly normal, other than that _look_.

"Call it parental instinct." Eddie's got his head leaned back against the couch, eyes closed. "You'll get there." 

There's a quiet snort of laughter from the phone that pulls Eddie's eyes open again. Carla's looking at the two of them knowingly. Buck seems completely unfazed. 

"Anyway." Cheeks burning at the implication. "I'll call in the morning, see if he's okay for school. If not, are you able to stay until I can get there from shift?" 

"Sure, not a problem." 

"Okay, I'll talk to you in the morning. Unless something comes up before then. And then call me, seriously, no matter what time it is. I'm on shift, I'm used to being woken up." 

"I will." She smiles reassuringly. "Don't worry, we're good here. Talk to you in the morning." 

They hang up, and Eddie collapses back against the couch. "Carla is a lifesaver, a million times over." Then, thinking through the logistics: "Fuck." 

Buck's still sitting close on the couch, shoulder-to-shoulder even though it's no longer necessary for being in frame on the video call. "Maybe he's just tired," he offers. 

"Maybe." Unconvinced. 

"And you?" Buck crosses his arms and bumps up against him, warm and solid and sure. 

"What about me?" 

Buck raises his eyebrows and waits him out. Eddie swallows, and okay, now that he's stopping to think about it, maybe that hurts a little bit, and maybe everything has felt just a little harder today, a little heavier. But he's fine. 

"I'm fine." He crosses his arms as well, and sinks down a little bit in the couch, and if his eyes slip closed as he lets the warmth from Buck soak into his shoulder and his arm and his side, well, that's just because it's been a long day, a long shift. He's fine. 

Buck doesn't fight him on it, just hums quietly, accepting it, and pats Eddie's leg reassuringly, and that's it for a while. 

. . .

He wakes, disoriented, to Buck shaking him, in close to his face so that he has to turn all the way over to avoid coughing on him. At some point, someone had draped a blanket over him. How long was he out? 

"Hey," Buck says, apologetic, "there's a call that's not going well, they're bringing in more trucks. Heard it—" the alarm goes, and Buck holds out a hand to pull him to his feet— "on the scanner. Didn't want that," he nods at the alarm, "to be what woke you." 

They're halfway down the stairs. "Thanks." His voice is all fucked up. He clears his throat and tries to convince himself it's just from being asleep. Buck waits for him to get in the truck before hopping up himself. That's weird. And probably a not good sign. He coughs into the collar of his turnout coat and looks at Buck across the way. Buck's looking back, steady, like he knows, but also knows better than to say anything about it. Eddie tries to convey his appreciation for the restraint telepathically. He's not sure if he succeeds. 

He's grateful, actually, when it's a structure fire, although he doesn't let himself think it until he's gotten confirmation that everyone's out. He's just so damn cold. Even in all his gear, it's the fire that finally starts to soak some warmth into his bones. He's vaguely aware that that's also not a good sign. He takes his spot on the line and tries to take stock. He's cold, but not sweating, not shaking with chills. If it is a fever, it's low-grade, barely enough to count. His throat hurts, but not too much to swallow, and the coughing is from his nose starting to run, not from any crap down deep in his lungs. He's tired, worn down, a little out of focus, but not dizzy. Not in any danger of passing out. So— a run-of-the-mill cold, the kind Christopher brings home from school a dozen times a year. Which explains that look earlier, too. It's fine. They're fine. He'll be grateful for the end of shift, but it's not anything anyone else needs to worry about. He watches the fire, and the spray from the hose, and lets himself float in the familiarity of it all. 

The headache sets in as he's rolling hose, after everything's black and steaming and smoldering in the night. It's fucking up his mood and he knows it, but he can't stop the way he glares at anyone who seems to be taking too long. He just wants to get back to the house, and find a spot to curl up and sleep where no one will ask him what's wrong, or how he feels, or if they can get him anything, or any of that shit. Preemptive annoyance flares at the thought. 

As soon as they climb back into the truck, he folds his arms and leans his head back and pretends to sleep, because he knows he's going to snap at someone if he does anything else. And maybe he does sleep, a little, because it's the knock of Buck's boot against his that brings him blinking back into awareness just as they're making the turn back into the station. He nods at Buck, a thank you for not letting it be anyone else to wake him. Buck nods back, and jumps easily back into his conversation with Hen, making her laugh and keeping her eyes off of Eddie. He's still cold, but there's this flare in his chest, wonderful and terrifying, and he doesn't try to tamp it down. 

It's the time of night where people scatter, and Eddie's grateful for that as well, that dinner's done and there's no expectation that he'll be anywhere in particular for a while. He wants to crawl under the covers and sleep, but he knows that heading for the bunks this early would draw attention for sure. He thinks through his options as he slowly strips off his turnout coat and boots and pants. There's this beat-up couch under the stairs. Someone on one of the other shifts had decided not to throw it out when they upgraded to the nice one upstairs. Their shift doesn't use it much, but it does seem to be the one place he could reasonably hide out for a while. 

There's a rag in his duffel bag that used to be a hand towel, mostly used to keep his sweat under control at the gym, and he sticks it in the front pocket of his hoodie, because getting up every five minutes to blow his nose is also the kind of thing that would be impossible to hide in this house. He wishes there was an old beat-up blanket on the old beat-up couch, but beggars, choosers, all that. He settles into the corner of the couch to cough into the towel, muffling the sound, and to blow his nose every thirty seconds, and to just generally wallow in the self-pity that would make him want to punch whoever it was coming from, if it was coming from anybody else. 

Well. Almost anybody else. 

Buck makes his way down the stairs and looks completely unsurprised to find him there. He doesn't say anything, just motions for Eddie to scooch over so that he can sit beside him on the couch. Eddie huffs a half-frustrated breath at his wallowing being interrupted, but moves, and if he presses in against Buck's side when Buck puts his arm out over the back of the couch, well, that's not something that anyone else needs to know. He tries not to shiver, and fails, and then Buck's arm is properly around him, holding him close, and Buck doesn't flinch when Eddie tries to push him away so that he can sneeze messily into the rag he's been gripping in his fist, just waits for him to be done and pulls him back in again. Eddie shivers again, and then Buck's hand is on his forehead, blissfully warm. 

"Hmm." 

"Hmm?" Hoarse. He doesn't want to talk, but he does want to know. 

"I don't think you have a fever. Or if you do, it's really low." 

Eddie nods. That's what he'd figured. Confirmation is good. His eyes are still closed, so it's a surprise when Buck's hand covers both of his. 

"You're cold." Concerned. Eddie nods. Again, no new information there. "I can grab a blanket from upst—" 

"No." 

Buck's quiet for a minute. "Okay." Then, very deliberately, he pulls up the hood of Eddie's sweatshirt, adjusting the strings and tying them up. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous." 

"Mhmm." 

It is warmer, though.

"Buck!" Chim, from the railing of the upper floor. "This movie was your idea; if you don't get up here I'm picking a new one." 

"Coming!" Buck calls back, and pats Eddie on the head, on the hood he'd just tied, ridiculous and perfect, and stands to leave. 

"Is Eddie coming?" Hen, from up above. 

"Nah." Looking Eddie in the eye. "He's on the phone." 

Eddie closes his eyes in relief, and just when he thinks that Buck must already be upstairs, a jacket lands on top of him like a blanket. He blinks up at Buck in confusion, who shrugs. "Forgot I had it in my locker." 

Whispered: "Thanks." 

Buck smiles at him and then bounds up the stairs, endless energy, shouting about popcorn, bright as the sun. 

. . .

When he wakes the next time, it's dark and quiet. He stands up shakily and makes his way to the bathroom, and then the kitchen for some water, and then to his bunk. He slides back under the covers, and is instantly out again. 

. . . 

He doesn't feel that bad in the morning, really. The sleep helped, and a shower before everyone else got up, as hot as he could stand it, and some meds, and what felt like half a roll of toilet paper in makeshift tissues, and coffee. Between all of that, he's put himself back together enough that he thinks he can slip under the radar for the last couple of hours of shift. Carla doesn't comment on it, at least, when he FaceTimes her to check on how Christopher's doing. 

"He's a little bit congested, but he got up on his own and he's eating breakfast now, so..." She shrugs. 

"And we both know that if you kept kids out for every sniffle they'd miss half the school year," he finishes, and she nods. "Can I talk to him?"

"Hi, Dad!" Mid-bite of cereal. 

"Hey, mijo. How're you feeling?" 

"I'm good. I want to go to school." 

"Blow your nose, kiddo, I can see your snot from here." 

"Eww." Christopher wrinkles his nose, which doesn't help the problem, and Carla appears in frame long enough to hand over a box of tissues. 

"Exactly. Eww. If you're gonna go to school you're gonna keep that under control, okay? Nobody wants to see it." 

"Uh-huh," Christopher agrees, and blows his nose, and then sticks his face unreasonably close to the camera for Eddie's approval. 

"I don't— yeah, okay, you got it, you're good." Eddie rolls his eyes, and Christopher grins, victorious. 

"So I can go?" 

"Are you going just so you don't miss Brayden's birthday party this afternoon? Because that's a separate conversation. That's not the decision we're making right now." 

"No! I mean, I want to go to the party, but I want to go to school, too. I _like_ school!" 

"I know you do." He shakes his head. "With most kids, you've gotta make sure they're not faking being sick; with you, I've gotta make sure you're not faking being well." 

"Not faking, Dad, I'm fine." 

"Okay, here's the deal." His voice is starting to get hoarse again, and he has to stop to clear his throat. He points at Christopher through the camera to make sure he's listening. "Tissues, not your sleeves. Lots of hand sanitizer. Cough in your elbow. And if you don't feel good, tell your teacher, okay? I'm home, I'll come get you." 

"Okay." 

"Does that all sound okay to you, Carla?" Eddie asks. 

"Sounds good to me." She comes back into frame and glances at her watch. "I think we'd better hit the road." 

"Okay. Have a good day, and I'll see you after school." 

"For the party!" 

"I don't know about the party yet. We'll talk about it when I pick you up." 

"Okayyy, see you later. Bye!" 

Eddie manages to wait until the call disconnects before giving in to the coughing he's been holding back. Bobby claps him on the shoulder, which makes Eddie jump; he'd thought he was alone. 

"You alright?" 

"Yeah." He weighs his options, and decides that the fastest way to end this conversation is with a little bit of the truth. "Christopher's got a cold." He shrugs, and leaves it at that. 

Bobby nods. "Well, take care of yourself. Did you already get breakfast?" 

"Yup." He'd forced himself to eat some eggs and toast along with his coffee. They didn't taste like much, but they were warm, and he knew he'd need the energy. 

Bobby nods again, seemingly satisfied, and moves on. Eddie looks at the clock. Almost there. 

He's in the locker room, packing his bag to go, when Buck drops down on the bench beside him. "What're you up to today?" 

Eddie knows that's Buck's way of inviting himself over, but honestly, he just needs to be alone in his house for a while. "I'm gonna go home and sleep." 

"Oh." A little disappointed; then, like he's had an idea— "Want me to bring over dinner? That way you won't have to cook." He looks Eddie over again. "And I'll keep Christopher entertained." 

He can't say that doesn't sound appealing. "Sure. If you want." Then, remembering: "Although Christopher might not even be there. He's supposed to go to a birthday party." He groans. "Thank God he's old enough that I can just drop him off; I couldn't handle a kid's birthday party right now." He rubs at his temples. "My head would fucking explode."

"I'll do it!" Buck's grinning. "I love birthday parties." 

Eddie laughs hoarsely. "You say that now." 

"No, seriously. I'll pick him up from school, bring him to the party, all of it. I've got it." 

Eddie blinks up at him, disbelieving. "I can't ask you to do that." 

"Are we having the same conversation? You didn't ask me. I'm offering." He crosses his arms. "And did you or did you not quite recently lecture me on how 'this is a family that takes care of each other' and how I had to let you and Christopher take care of me then and then you'd let me reciprocate later? Well, this is me reciprocating. So." With a flourish. "Checkmate." 

His head hurts. That's way too much to parse, mostly because he knows Buck is right. He grumbles in reply, which Buck clearly takes for a yes, and then straightens up. "Wait, hang on. I told him we had to see how he's feeling before he can go to the party." 

Buck frowns, concerned. "Is this still just intuition, or is he actually sick? Wait, then why's he at school?" 

Eddie rubs at his forehead. "Because, Buck, there is this dance you do as a parent where you have to decide, at the same time you're trying to get everyone dressed and fed and out the door, how sick your kid is going to be in the next seven and a half hours, and if you get it wrong you've either both missed a day of school and work when you didn't need to, or you have to face the disapproval of everyone at your kid's school for being _that parent_ who knowingly sent their kid in sick." 

"Shit." Buck looks kind of surprised. 

"So there's a decent chance that I made the wrong decision today, and an even greater chance that I didn't necessarily make the wrong decision sending him to school, because school is important in a way that parties are not, but that I can't in good conscience send him over to someone else's house to cough on their birthday cake." They're so close to the shift change that it feels like a physical ache. "And I'm not gonna put you in the position of either having to make that decision or, especially, having to tell him he can't go." His voice is almost gone. Fuck, he just needs to be home. 

"Okay." Buck's got a hand on his shoulder, reassurance in the weight of it. "Here's the plan. You go home and sleep, because you clearly need it—" Eddie grumbles a little bit at that— "and I come over at three with everything we'd need for dinner, and you can be the one to pick Christopher up from school but I'll be the one to take him to the party if he's up for it. Okay?" 

"I... yeah." Quiet, not meeting his eyes. "Okay." 

Buck squeezes his shoulder, and looks at his watch, which apparently says eight, because he stands and picks up both of their bags, over Eddie's protests that he can get his own bag, thank you very much. "I've got it," he says, and Eddie knows that what he means is, _You're not alone._

. . .

He stays awake just long enough to dig some cold medicine out of the cabinet and down it with as much water as he can convince himself to drink, and put the painkillers he'd taken that morning on his bedside table so that once it's time he can take some more of them as well, and falls into sleep. Every time he wakes up, his mouth is like sand from sleeping with his mouth open (and probably snoring, although thankfully no one's around to hear it), and he's got snot and drool on his pillow, and it's just so fucking annoying, all of it, having to prop himself back up in a way that puts a crick in his neck, and going through five million tissues but never properly being able to breathe, and just... fuck. 

At noon he stumbles into the kitchen to find something to eat. Nothing sounds appealing so he makes a ham sandwich and eats it through sheer force of will, and as soon as he's done he's attacked by a sneezing fit that leaves him lightheaded and stumbling. He forces himself to be a responsible adult and clean up the kitchen and pour a glass of water and bring the tissues and a trash can into the living room, and falls onto the couch. He can't find anything on tv, all these fucking channels and there's nothing to watch, and eventually he shoves the remote off the coffee table and coughs into the blanket until he falls asleep. 

The sound of the key in the lock brings him back with a gasp, and he's sitting upright before the logical part of his brain can figure out that it's just Buck, not an enemy invasion, and it's too fast and his head's spinning and he's coughing so hard that all he can do is hold onto the couch with one hand and his chest with the other. 

"Eddie." Focused. Close. How'd he get so close so fast? "Hey. Breathe." Well, if it were that fucking simple he'd be doing it already, wouldn't he. 

A glass of water being pressed into his hand. "Just a sip." 

He shakes his head. 

"Try." 

The smallest sip possible, and he doesn't choke, so he does it again, and the world slowly comes back into focus. Buck's got one hand on his back and the other on his chest, on top of Eddie's, holding him up. 

"Fuck." Breathless, sinking back into the couch. Buck hands him a tissue and Eddie wipes the tears and snot off his face. 

"So, uh." Buck glances at the clock. "I really hate to say this, but... don't you have to leave to get Chris?"

 _"Fuck."_ He's not late yet; thank God Buck came by when he did; but yeah, he has to leave now. He stands up, and then has to sit back down to breathe before he can try again. 

"Eddie. You've gotta let me drive." 

"Nope." He shakes his head, and takes another breath. "Just give me a minute." 

Buck waits him out, and Eddie coughs a little bit more, blows his nose, takes another drink of water. "Okay. I'm good." 

Buck's still looking at him dubiously, but Eddie means it. He's not so proud that he'd risk his own kid's safety in traffic, not to mention everyone else's, just to make a point. "Seriously, Buck. I feel like crap, but I'm okay to drive. Stay here." He's putting on his shoes. "I'll be back soon. And," because he knows Buck's going to take over the whole situation by force if he doesn't give him something, "yes, if Christopher's okay to go to the party, you're the one taking him." 

Buck nods, cautiously satisfied, and Eddie's out the door before he can say anything else. 

. . .

His head is splitting by the time he gets into the pick-up line, and he's sort of regretting not letting Buck talk him into giving up the keys. They're so close, though. He just has to get Christopher, get home, and that's it. Either Buck takes Christopher to the party or they all stay in, but either way, he doesn't have to go anywhere until tomorrow. If he even does go in tomorrow. He hates to use his sick days on himself when he never knows how many he's going to need for Christopher, but it's also not like they have a job where there aren't any consequences if you come in when you're too sick to work. That shit could get someone killed. 

He makes it to the front of the line, and it's Christopher's teacher who's walking him over, which isn't that weird because Christopher needs a hand getting into the truck and it holds up the line if parents get out to help, but there are a couple of paras who are always on pick-up duty, so he was expecting one of them.   
  
"Hi, Ms. Reilly, good to see you," he starts when she opens the passenger door and leans the seat forward, willing his voice to sound normal, but he trails off when he sees Christopher's face. "Everything okay?" 

Ms. Reilly helps Christopher up into the truck. "Kind of a hard day," she says, watching to make sure he gets buckled in the back. She's talking to Eddie, but in a way that's very conscious of Christopher being right there, which Eddie knows means she's seriously underplaying how hard of a day it actually was. "Everything was just... very frustrating, right, Christopher?" Her eyes are kind. He nods, not looking at her. It looks like he's been crying. "Including walking. Kind of achy, huh?" She runs a hand over his shoulder. Christopher nods again, and sniffles. "I asked if he wanted to go see the nurse, and he kept telling me no, but," a little quieter, meant for Eddie, like she knows Christopher will try to disagree, "I don't think he's feeling very good." 

A surge of shame-turned-anger at having judged wrong, for putting Christopher through all of that. He takes a breath to steady himself. "Okay, thanks for letting me know. Sounds like we might not see you tomorrow." 

She nods sympathetically before closing the door. "Feel better," she says through the window, and waves them off. 

He has to keep the line moving, and more than anything, he just wants to be home, so he drives. He keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, not sure what he can say that's not going to send Christopher over the edge that's he's currently teetering on.

They make it a block. 

"Why won't we see her tomorrow?" Voice trembling, on the verge of tears. "I don't want to stay home tomorrow." 

Eddie sighs, and squints into the sun. God, his head hurts. "Cariño, if you're sick, you have to stay home. That's how this works." 

"But we're doing this project in science class. With electricity. I can't miss it." 

"I'm sure your teacher will let you make it up." 

"It won't be the same! I have to be there."

"We'll see how you feel tomorrow." When in doubt, delay. 

"That's what you said about Brayden's party." A whine creeping into his voice. "Wait." A definite whine now. "Dad. What about Brayden's party? It starts at 4:30."   
  
Fuck. He'd hoped they could have this particular meltdown at home. He sighs. "Mijo, if you're sick..." 

Instant tears, which, from his usually stoic kid, is proof enough in itself. "I'm not!" 

"Buddy..." 

"I'm not sick, Ms. Reilly was _wrong_ , it wasn't a bad day, I'll be so good—" The tears are spilling. That edge they were both teetering on earlier? They're in freefall now.

"Christopher—" 

"No!" Sobbing. "You have to let me go." 

It feels fucking awful, to have the right decision be the one that also makes his kid hate him. "I can't."

"You can!" A little hysterical, in a way that Eddie knows mean they're about to leave the realm where logic has any role in this. 

"I can't." They're closing in on home. They just have to make it.

"No!" The shriek is an ice pick in his brain, making it hard to see. Christopher is crying hard, tripping over the words: "You have to, you have to, you ha- have to." 

"You're sick; I'm sick; we're not going." He's trying to keep his voice calm. It's not working. 

"That's..." Searching, chest heaving, tears and snot streaming down his face. "Bullshit!" Christopher punctuates the word with a kick to the back of the passenger seat, and Eddie's adrenaline spikes. "Just because _you're_ sick doesn't mean—" 

"First of all," in a tone like his own father; he hates it and can't stop it, "you _will_ show some respect and you will _not_ kick that seat or anything else, and," he knows he should stop there, that there's nothing productive that will come from saying it, but he says it anyway: "for the record, I was going to let Buck take you to the party, so this is _not_ because of me." 

Christopher's not even coherent anymore; his sobs have devolved into a wordless howl. Eddie lets him cry. To be honest, he wants to cry, too, because apparently today is just a list of ways that he's failing his son. Failing at being a parent. Failing at fucking everything. 

Buck's waiting in the driveway, leaning against his Jeep, but his grin falls as soon as he sees Eddie's face through the windshield. Eddie turns off the truck and just sits there for a minute, forcing himself to breathe. Buck taps on the passenger door to get him to hit the unlock button, and as soon as the door opens, Christopher launches himself at Buck, crutches still on the floor of the back seat. He'd slowed down to exhausted, hiccuping breaths, but he starts crying again as soon as Buck catches him in his arms. Buck looks over his head at Eddie. _No party?_ he mouths, even though the answer is obvious. Eddie shakes his head and mouths back, _Sick. Bad day._ Buck nods, and carries Christopher inside. Eddie takes a shaky breath, and gathers up his stuff and Christopher's, and follows.

Buck's already in the recliner with Christopher cradled in his arms, rocking the chair gently with one foot against the floor. He's just pulling Christopher's glasses off and setting them on the side table when Eddie comes in the door. Eddie sinks down onto the couch, head in his hands. Christopher's trying to tell Buck what happened, and it's hard to understand but there are parts in there about earlier in the day, about this kid at school getting mad that Christopher was holding up the line when his legs were aching too much to walk. (Eddie's guessing that there's probably an email waiting for him from the school with the parts of the day that Ms. Reilly didn't want to dump on him at pick-up, and if he didn't feel like a shit father before, he certainly does now.) Buck just listens, and lets him cry, and, in the most goddamn parental move Eddie's ever seen, pulls his sleeve over his hand and wipes Christopher's face, snot and all, never taking his eyes off him. Eddie brings the box of tissues over and Buck smiles in thanks and puts it in his lap so that Christopher can reach, and keeps rocking, and Christopher slowly comes down, hiccuping sobs to ragged breaths, until eventually, finally, his eyes slip closed, and he's ragdoll-limp in Buck's arms. Buck looks toward the couch, and Eddie brings over the blanket, and also the trash can so that Buck can throw away the tissues that have accumulated in his lap. Eddie drapes the blanket over them both, still feeling like shit, and Buck carefully pulls the lever on the recliner to lean back without disturbing Christopher. Eddie bites his lip, watching them, and Buck reaches out and grabs his hand. Doesn't say anything, just gives some pressure, _I'm here, you're not alone,_ and then wraps up Christopher in the blanket and both of his arms and closes his eyes. Eddie's eyes are stinging. He winds up in his room, and, not sure what else to do, climbs into bed and buries himself in the covers, and cries, and sleeps. 

. . .

"Daddy?" 

It's dark outside. Everything feels swollen and off-kilter. He's asleep at the wrong time. Awake in the darkness. His head aches, and his throat, and his face, and his chest, and his heart. 

"Eds." Too gentle, like something's wrong. What's wrong? "Hey." A hand on his back, his shoulder, his forehead, running through his hair. "Are you okay to wake up for a minute?" 

He gets his eyes to stay open for a full three seconds and they meet Christopher's, lying next to him on the bed, his glasses still off, now in his pajamas, hair wet from the bath. He closes his eyes again and pulls his kid close. 

"I'm sorry." Christopher's voice is small. "I'm sorry I yelled and I'm sorry I swore and I'm really sorry I kicked the seat. It's not okay to kick things. It might break something. Or it might make people feel scared that you... that you might kick them instead." There's a rehearsed quality to it; not at all like he's parroting back what someone told him to say, but like he's talked it through with someone. With Buck. 

Eddie pulls in a shaking breath. He can feel Buck's hand on his shoulder. It slips away, like Buck's going to leave the room, give them some privacy, but he shakes his head. Reaches without looking, and feels the bed sink behind him when Buck sits down. _You're not alone._

"Mijo." Still shaking. Looking right in Christopher's eyes. "I love you so much, okay? And there is nothing in the whole world that you could ever do that would make me love you any less." Another breath, trying not to give in to the lump in his throat. "And I appreciate you saying sorry. It's important to say sorry. And that's what I need to do, too." He runs his hand over Christopher's hair, the way he did when he was born, and fuck, there's no stopping the tears now. "I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry I made you feel like any of this was your fault, and I'm—" it's hard to get the words out— "I'm so sorry if I made you feel scared; I never ever want to make you feel that way." He sits up enough so that he can get Christopher in his arms. "I know you didn't feel good and you were trying to hold it together all day to get to do something fun, something you've been really looking forward to, and after all that you didn't even get to do it. That's really hard." 

"It _sucks_ ," Christopher says, emphatic, and Eddie blinks at him. "That's what Buck said," Christopher tells him solemnly, and Eddie can't do anything but laugh. 

"It does suck," he says. "And my day kind of sucked, too, and I didn't feel good either, and it just sort of all..." He lets go of Christopher so he can use both hands to imitate a mushroom cloud. _"Fwoosh."_

_"Fwoosh,"_ Christopher says back to him, hands making an even bigger cloud, and Eddie catches them and wraps him up in a bear hug. 

"So here's the plan." Planting a kiss in Christopher's hair and relaxing his hold just a little. "We're gonna stay home tomorrow. I'll email your science teacher and see if there's any experiments with electricity we can do at home. _Safely,"_ he adds, because he knows that Buck's about to jump in with some ideas. "And we're gonna watch movies on the couch and we can be grumpy but we'll try not to be mad, and then hopefully the day after that we'll be ready to go back to normal. Sound good?" 

"With Buck," Christopher says, and it's not a question. "He's sick, too." 

Eddie blinks up at Buck, then back at Christopher. "He is?" 

Buck shrugs. "Just a little bit of a scratchy throat." He swallows, and it looks like it hurts. "So far." 

Eddie shakes his head. "Guess that was inevitable." He turns back to Christopher. "If he decides he needs to stay home, then yes, Buck too." 

"Then okay." Decisive. "It sounds like a plan." He yawns. "Can I sleep in here tonight?" 

"You can. But if you take over my half of the bed, I'm going to carry you back to your room, so don't be confused when you wake up there." 

Christopher giggles. "Deal." 

"You get started sleeping," Eddie tells him. "I just realized I never had dinner." 

"Buck made soup," Christopher tells him. "It was good." He yawns again and burrows into the covers. 

"From scratch," Buck says, not quite hiding how proud he is of that. 

"Well then." Eddie puts out a hand so Buck can haul him out of bed. "To the kitchen."

. . .

They wait in silence for the soup to heat up, the only sounds the hum of the microwave and Buck sniffling. Leaning against the counters, kitty-corner apart. 

"Thank you," he says eventually. "For the soup, for being there for Christopher, for getting him ready for bed... all of it." 

"Eddie." 

It's not even close to the tone he was expecting. He looks up, uneasy. 

"You're not your father." Buck's looking at him intensely. "You know that, right?" 

The humming stops and the microwave beeps, but Eddie's frozen against the counter. "What?" 

"What you said before, to Chris. About scaring him. Thinking you'd scared him." He scrubs at his nose with his knuckles and refolds his arms. "He's not scared of you." 

"I—" 

"Not ever." Buck's leaning forward now, and Eddie doesn't want to hold his gaze but he can't look away. "Not even when you yell. I'm not saying you should yell," he amends, "but when it happens?" He takes a step forward. "He might be sad, or hurt, but he's not scared. And— no, listen to me—" because Eddie's looking away, biting down on his tongue, on his lips, trying not to let the tears spill— "here's the most important thing." Fierce. In close, hands on Eddie's shoulders. "You _apologize_ to your kid when you screw up. Do you know how many parents actually apologize to their kids? And mean it?" There's something in the way he says it that makes Eddie look up. There's another conversation in there that needs to be had, but he lets it go for now. "You are a _good father_." He pulls Eddie in, and Eddie lets him, and holds on tight. "And you are raising a _good kid_. The best kid I've ever met. Okay?" 

Eddie nods against him, and pulls in a breath, and steps back enough to wipe his eyes. "And you." He laughs shakily. "You're getting pretty good at this kid thing, too." 

Buck's face covers about ten emotions all at once, and one of them is definitely pride, and shining hope. He turns to pull the soup out of the microwave, and hands it to Eddie, but gets overtaken by a coughing fit before he can hand him the spoon. 

"Including the germ part," Eddie adds, pounding him on the back. 

"Worth it," Buck gets out. 

Eddie smiles a little in spite of everything. "It really, really is." 

Buck gets his breath back, and Eddie takes his first few bites of soup. Christopher was right. It's really good. "So like I told Christopher, since you're a grown-up—" he lilts the word, and Buck laughs— "you get to make your own choices. But I'm gonna lobby for the movies and hot chocolate option for tomorrow. In part because I worked through this crap for not even a full shift, and in the words of someone very insightful and eloquent, it sucked." 

"You didn't mention the hot chocolate part before." Buck's got his arms wrapped around himself, looking thoughtful. "I can definitely see the appeal." 

Eddie takes another bite of soup. "Also, if Christopher's having a sleepover in my room, then you are, too." 

"Yeah." Buck smiles, and it's almost shy, like he hasn't been sleeping in Eddie's bed on and off for a month, ever since their trip to the mountains. "Okay." 

That flare in his heart again, warm in the darkness. It's a burning star with more names than he's ready to speak, because there are some that are fragile and easily broken, ones with roads that never lead back. There are others, though, that he's been sure of for a while now. _Family,_ for a start. _Love,_ for another. And, as he watches Buck sleep on the other side of the bed, Christopher between them, here under the safety of these covers, this roof, he's sure about a third one: _Home._

  
. . .  
. . .


End file.
